Portia Nichols leanedagainst the stone balustrade outside of her family’s mausoleum. It was well into the afternoon and she’d not had lunch; her stomach was protesting that fact loudly. She’d no time to eat due to the heightened excitement of this past afternoon and was regretting it now. Even more regrettable was that she’d been voted out of the running to help her sister suss out the family treasure. She did not want to say it aloud, but everyone knew Cordelia had never been fond of the family tomb. But what was done was done. She only wished it wasn’t taking so bloody long.
She blew air out her nose and stamped her foot, which had gone numb. Henry Peverill was leaning against the entryway, directly in her line of sight, though they were doing a good job of ignoring one another.
She thought she caught a murmur of something but was not sure if it was a bird or someone speaking. Then, Henry Peverill was suddenly in front of her, startling her. He was a tall man, though more willowy than the duke, and a deal more graceful. Where Justin had been stiff in the saddle, Henry was supple, moving as though he were one with the horse.
“Why would you do that?” Henry asked. His lips were quite full, and as a result they moved in a sensual way. She had to fight down the flush that was rising on her cheeks.
“Do what?” she questioned.
“Jump out a window? Endanger your sisters? Try to climb a rope with one arm?” he added. His voice was deep and rumbled like thunder. In fact, it was a terrible fact to admit, his voice was the clearest she’d ever heard. The low tones of men’s voices meant that she would always be able to register those first, where screeching women with their clucking singsong chatter she’d never hear. To Portia, Lady Billings was only ever moving her mouth. But with Henry Peverill… it was rather like she was at the very bottom of a pool, and he were speaking to her from above the water.
It was still miraculous. But why… why did it have to behim?
“They’re fine, aren’t they? Everyone’s here. I don’t require henpecking from a deranged ship captain,” she replied.
“Former ship captain, current merchant. At least I have the good sense to know how to fall,” he said, gesturing to her shoulder. “If we didn’t catch you, you could have done the other arm in. Or worse.”
Portia rolled her eyes. “If you could return to being an irredeemable rake and stop playing the part of chastising nobleman, that would be grand. It does not suit you.”
The corners of Peverill’s mouth turned down at her assessment. He was about to respond when the duke emerged from the underground chamber. He’d left his torch behind and was covered in cobwebs and dust.
“Good lord,” Portia said, involuntarily.
“I know,” he replied, smiling. “Peverill, would you escort the ladies back to the house?”
Portia wanted to protest, but Peverill cut her off. “Of course,” he said, quickly.
“Perhaps you and Lady Portia would be able to play host and hostess for a little while?” the duke added, nodding his head toward her.
There was a hot pit of anger forming in Portia’s stomach. She wanted to push past the man and see what her sister was up to. But the duke was wearing a smile, albeit a sad one, and she knew enough to know that he and Cordelia deserved a proper goodbye. It was exactly how she’d predicted it. The duke had gone and fallen in love and her older sister was either too afraid or blockheaded to admit that she loved him too.
If that was the case, Portia needed to remedy it, and quickly.
Peverill murmured something that Portia didn’t catch and was threading his arm through hers. Hermione and Bea were soon at their side and before she knew it, he’d steered them all toward the manor house.
“Worse than herding cats,” he muttered to himself, Portia catching his mouth out of the corner of her eye.
At that, she promptly dug the heel of her boot into his foot. Hearing his yelp, Bea and Hermione looked shocked. Portia smiled, pleased with herself.
Looking down at Bea, she said, “Race you home!”
Without waiting for a reply, they whooped down the side of the little hill, leaving that wretched, handsome man in their wake.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cordelia arrived atthe top of the mausoleum staircase and looked around. The large oak trees swayed in the wind with pretty birdsong.Strange, she thought to herself. She could have sworn she heard someone calling her. Forcing down the chill that rose in her spine, she called out to her sisters.
“Hello!” she tried, and then paused. There was no answer.
It was odd that she was to be the bearer of such wonderful news but have no one to share it with. Little did everyone know, the house was saved, their futures secured, and fortunes made. In spite of herself, she laughed, dabbing at the moisture in the corners of her eyes with Justin’s handkerchief. Sneezing loudly, she dropped the piece of fabric to the ground.
When she bent to retrieve it, the wind blew it down the steps and onto the path. Catching a glint of gold thread in the dappled sunlight, she saw that it was Bea’s little monstrosity of an embroidered hankie, complete with three pyramids and a dilapidated palm tree. She’d started a camel but didn’t finish it; Cordelia could tell where she’d plucked the threads out. Instead, in untidy lettering, she’d stitchedFor the Duke, Love, Bea.
Cordelia’s heart surged at that, tears threatening again for different reasons.I am not ready, she realized suddenly.I am not ready to say goodbye.
She almost didn’t catch his dark coat between the trees. She knew who it was instantly. Justin was standing off in a cornerof the cemetery, his back turned to her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers.
Clutching the hankie in her hand, she walked over to where he stood. She opened her mouth to say something but then decided against it. He’d heard her approach but was staring at a shabby old tombstone. The hand-hewn letters read: Timothy Wright. Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat. This was his father’s grave.
